Dear Mr Pennyworth
by lastcrazyhorn
Summary: Ms Engelbrecht has always encouraged him to reach for more than his limited imagination can conceive. In this case, the results are beyond them both.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Mr Pennyworth,_

He stopped and rubbed a shaking hand over his aching face. Vernon had slammed him into a wall a mere handful of hours earlier, and the room was still spinning.

_I was cleaning my Aunt's attic and came across your name and address in a pile of correspondence between you and her._

He'd had to look up the word, "correspondence," in order to spell it, but he had known the word. Ms Engelbrecht had used it enough to make it feel like an every day sort of word to him. He firmly ignored the fact that he was only six, and unlikely to know such vocabulary.

Then again, it's not like he talked to anyone other than her, so who would notice?

_I am taking the chance that you still live at this address._

This was the third such letter he had written. His options weren't looking very good. One letter had been returned (thank goodness that he had been charged with getting the mail that day). The other had seemingly gone into oblivion.

_And that you are still alive._

He didn't think it was his imagination that everyone related to Petunia seemed to be dead.

_I think you are my late grandmum's brother, but I may be wrong. If I understand the relationship between you and me, that would make you my great-uncle._

Thinking of any sort was extremely difficult. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten at the table. He had been filching from the trash for over three weeks, and his thought patterns had been distinctly jagged since his caloric intake had dropped. Ms Engelbrecht had noticed, of course, and had tried to supplement his meager options with extra food, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be enough in the long run.

Hence, the reason for this "hare-brained scheme," as she had put it. He never would have taken the chance without her urging him on.

_I am taking a chance on you and this letter, but I think that my options are quickly vanishing. I feel that my family is going to kill me before I am old enough to live on my own._

_It is with a great deal of reluctance that I find myself begging for you to come and rescue me. I am alone, hungry and hurting. My relatives are unaware of my intelligence, as I have taken measures to keep from being noticed by them. To them, I am a mute freak. They tell me frequently that I am unworthy of breath, unworthy of food, unworthy of love._

_I hope you will believe me. I hope that your address is still true. I hope that you are still alive._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry J Potter, age 6 (and 3 weeks)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N - **Blame my Harry for his overly intelligent speech. He insisted. _

_As for me, this is the most I've written in months. I apparently have some kind of life-sucking, fatigue producing, compromised nerve thing going on. It is somewhat like MS, but I don't yet have a diagnosis. It's fun. I play the game, "What body part will randomly stop working correctly today!?" game every morning. _

Alfred Pennyworth, longtime butler and mentor, and dare he say it, _friend_ to Bruce Wayne, opened his mail carefully. Anything from England was to be treated with caution, especially when the last name sparked recognition, despite his better efforts.

_Dear Mr Pennyworth . . ._

He read the rest of the letter in varying states of shock. He was on his feet and moving before he ever realised, completely forgetting the other person in the room as he did.

"Alfred?" Master Bruce's voice was pitched somewhere between his two identities, something that normally got his attention.

But not this time. Given the lack of words in his usually vast vocabulary, Alfred silently handed the letter over.

Memories were exploding across his mind. Memories of two little girls, both named after the flowers that his sister delighted in the most. Two little girls, each hanging off his arms, pushing him to abandon his dignity, his posture, his impeccable and stiff existence. Teaching him that love was simple, and easy, and that he just had to allow himself the chance to _feel, _to be, to be a part of something that was normally beyond him.

And then, the knowledge that within weeks of each other, two of the three were gone, and the third was unwilling to speak with him. Yes, his heart had reason for bottling up those memories.

"I'm coming too," Master Bruce growled out, all Bat in that moment; eyes glinting with as many complex emotions as he himself could feel within his own battered heart.

Anger. Disgust. Pain. Longing. Hurt. Helplessness.

_Family._

. . .

The child that opened the door was much smaller than a six-year-old had any right to be.

Master Bruce had let him take the lead, skulking behind him in a plain sweater and black trousers like some kind of erstwhile thuggish bodyguard.

Alfred heard him take a deep breath in - what would be considered a gasp for any other man or woman.

"I am here to see a Mr Harry Potter, please," Alfred stated, already knowing who was there looking at him.

The boy's eyebrows shot up far under his fringe, and time seemed to slow to a stop around them.

"Boy! What are you doing!?" A man screamed out from behind the boy, breaking the moment.

He slammed the door open, and grabbed the boy by the cuff of his neck, throwing him back into the depths of the house without even a by-your-leave.

Alfred straightened with a scowl, ignoring Bruce's silent flinch behind him, and stepped up into the obese man's personal space.

"I am here to talk with Harry Potter."

"Fat lot of good that'll do," The man barked an unpleasant sounding laugh. "Little freak is empty between the eyes. Can't talk, can barely walk without tripping down the stairs!" His little piggy eyes gleamed with something like glee.

There was a growl behind him, and Bruce was pushing forward, slamming the other man into the doorway, allowing Alfred to slip on past into the house.

He suspected that he would want to talk with his charge afterward about his suddenly animalistic behaviour, but ignored the thought in his push forward.

"Mr Harry?" He asked the room.

The boy from before slipped into his sight, green eyes still wide with surprise.

"You!" Came a shriek from across the room. "I thought I told you never to contact me or mine ever again," Petunia sneered.

"Hello, dear niece. How delightful to see you," His voice was dead even to his own ears.

. . .

Divide and conquer. This was the thought that kept swimming in Bruce's mind. But, perhaps conquer was too strong a word when it came to the tiny boy standing near him, just out of arm's reach.

Perhaps the word, "Befriend," could be used instead of conquer. Perhaps.

He was entirely too tall, Bruce felt. Usually he appreciated his height. He took a small measure of pleasure in being able to intimidate his enemies. Maybe more than a small measure. But now, he was far too tall.

He dropped to a knee and watched as the child flinched at his sudden movement.

"Are you Harry?" He pitched his voice somewhere between Batman and real Bruce.

Low. Quiet. Still.

The child studied him for a moment and then nodded. Thin arms hugging a thin torso in a poor amalgamation of a hug.

"That's good," He responded, exaggerating relief by swiping at imaginary sweat on his forehead.

"What did you do to my uncle?" Harry asked in a whisper.

"Ah, he's taking a little nap," Bruce answered, trying to be cognizant of his audience.

To be honest, he should have expected the smile, but it still took him off guard.

"Do you think you could make my aunt take one too?" Harry whispered, leaning in toward him conspiratorially.

"I think Alfred can handle her," Bruce answered, beckoning the boy closer.

There was a scream from the woman in question, and the sound of breaking glass, and then the unmistakable sound of a face being slapped.

Harry leaned in close to him, visibly shuddering.

It was easy to pick him up and carry him out of the house; glass figurines shattering against the walls behind them as he moved them toward the door. There was a cold little nose pressed tightly against his neck, and small legs gripping him tightly around the waist.

He felt the familiar surge of anger that always came when protecting young innocents, and vowed to himself that this boy, this little nephew of Alfred's, would know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Bruce Wayne was on his side.


End file.
